Ascensiones
by aadarshinah
Summary: Things Fall Apart. #32 in the Ancient!John 'Verse. McShep.
1. Pars Una

_Ascensiones_

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

**22 February, 2007 / XXXVI Apr. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus**

"Dipoles, Kavanagh! Dipoles!"

"I am more than aware of the problems generated by magnetic confinement upon hydrogen gas, generating evenly compressed plasma amongst them," the so-called Head of Research and Development says acerbically. His bitterness over having to still report to Rodney, despite his absurd new position, has only grown in the seven weeks since the Second Expedition Gated to the city. While there are several familiar faces among them, many of them friendly, there are those Rodney would much rather have done without. Like Kavanagh. And Telford. And any number of others whose names he can't honestly be bothered to recall. "I happen to have a Ph.D. in the field from MIT and another from Texas A&M in Nuclear Engineering. And if you take a look at my simulation, you'd see-"

Rodney _is_ looking at the simulation - far closer than Kavanagh actually has, by the sound of things. Choosing to act like he hasn't been interrupted, he continues, "They complicate matters severely. Magnetohydrodynamics is exceedingly difficulty to project accurately."

"Yes," the other man bites out, his rat-like eyes narrowing in a way that suggests he wants to make an issue of things but is forcing himself to stay – just barely – within the bounds of propriety for appearance's sake. For the moment, "but I have been studying those effects for well over a decade. You might even say I'm an expert in the field. Which is why you should just take a look at-"

"Yes, yes, I've looked at your damned simulation. You've only programed it out to fifteen significant figures."

"Which are five more than are really needed. And, if you notice, it also happens to work."

"On computer, in a simulation," Rodney snorts, tapping the screen of the laptop that's currently running the algorithms for Kavanagh's long-running pet project: a tokamak capable of producing commercially viable magnetic confinement fusion.

If successful, it could be revolutionary back on Earth – Terra. As global oil reserves are depleted, a new source of substantial amounts of energy is desperately needed. Zero point energy remains unviable for a multitude of reasons, ranging from the fact that the Stargate Program remains classified on Earth – Terra – to rather more stymying one that, after nearly thee years, they still don't know what the Zero Point Modules are actually made of, let alone how to manufacture one of their own. Atlantis now has the capability to recharge dead ZedPMs, but even Rodney's ATLAS Device is dependent upon having at least one charged ZedPM available to recharge a dead one. If something were ever to happen to drain all their ZedPMS at once, they're back to square one.

Not that Naquadah generators are exactly _square one_ for energy production, but they are still fission devices. They still generate radioactive waste, albeit on a far smaller scale than the average nuclear power plant. They are still capable of causing widespread destruction if one were ever to seriously malfunction.

A fusion device could potentially solve the world's energy problems, granting the country that controlled it the power of a sun.

It could also potentially turn into a hydrogen bomb if improperly designed.

(Well, no, that's probably over selling things a little. But this _is_ Kavanagh he's talking about, and Rodney doesn't trust his equations any farther than he can throw them. Any disaster is possible if Kavanagh's at the helm.)

"But," Rodney continues, "you try building this thing in real life and you'll blow the city apart."

Through gritted teeth now, "Every simulation has shown-"

"Your simulation's fallacious. And, even if it weren't, if you honestly thought that I'd give you the okay to go ahead and build it without John or myself running the numbers first, you're a bigger idiot than I thought. I don't have time to look over it now, but if you want to go ahead and forward me the data, I can take a look at it tonight-

"What? So that you can use it to make your own design? I think not."

"Please. The moment this program is declassified, I'll have a shelf full of Nobels. The only question is what discovery they'll award it for first."

"I highly doubt the Royal Science Academy would consider your gleaning of Ancient technology to be true discoveries, even if they were inclined to award a prize to someone who betrayed his whole planet just to get laid."

Rodney can't help it: a startled burst of laughter escapes him that has several heads in the Second Expedition's main physics lab turning their heads towards Kavanagh's little glass-walled office. "Honestly, if that's what you think, I should just let you build your tokamak so I can watch as you blow yourself to smithereens, but since I've no desire to see you take half my city with you, the answer's still: not until I see the math."

When there's no immediate response, Rodney thinks he's won this round and straightens up to go. It's true that he doesn't have time to be doing this right now – he's supposed to be in John's office in ten minutes, for a meeting with the folks in charge of planning their wedding about when they can actually _have_ the wedding without interfering with any of the Confederation's primary signatories' harvest seasons, or some ridiculousness like that. Because apparently it wasn't fitting for the Emperor of Pegasus to get married in the traditional Ancient way, which, like most Ancient ceremonies, involved little more than some paperwork and meditation. It's a load of pomp and circumstance both of them would rather do without, but they'd both known from the moment John had accepted the job their lives would no longer quite be their own.

Still annoying, though.

He's halfway out the door when he hears Kavanagh say, "It's not your city."

He pauses and turns. "It's definitely not yours."

"You don't like me. Fine. I don't particularly like you either. But don't pretend abandoning Earth makes you better than the rest of us. So you have the Ancient gene. So the city supposedly blasts music into your head. That doesn't make Atlantis yours. There are other people who are doing good work here, work that will benefit billions of people. Just because they're people you've turned your back on doesn't make it any less worthy."

"This has nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the fact that you're a second-rate scientist who's greased enough palms to get a position you are in no way worthy of or prepared for," he snaps, spiteful enough that he makes sure to speak loud enough for all the eagerly awaiting ears in the main lab to hear.

"Better than being shipped off to the edge of the known universe because nobody wanted you anywhere on Earth."

Rodney knows it's not true. Elizabeth fought to have him on the First Expedition. He'd not been a popular choice. If it had been up to the IOA selection committee, he'd have stayed in Siberia for the rest of his life, in part to smooth over ruffled Russian feathers, always on edge about being the red-headed stepchildren of the Stargate Program, in part to keep the Americans happy, most of whom were still rather upset over that incident with Teal'c a few years back. For them, it has never mattered that he's the smartest person in who galaxies, only that he's not the _political_ choice.

All this is ancient history – lower case "A" – but it still stings.

Unable to think of any response to this that won't generate an intergalactic war, Rodney turns and leaves.

* * *

It is with a creeping sense of dread that Iohannes realizes his Confederation has spawned its first political party.

He doesn't think Allina Huskis, who has managed to become the Daganian Minster for Enterprise and Innovation since he saw her last, fully realizes this yet, but it's true all the same. There are a plethora of people in this galaxy who feel just as she does, all of whom will flock to her banner because that is the kind of person that she is - which is to say, charismatic and fatally self-assured, which seem to be the two primary requirements for a successful politician of any species.

Iohannes can already see her spiritually-flavored version of corporatism gaining footholds throughout in galaxy, particularly on pious planets like Pryderi and Berwyn, where the Ancestral religion as gotten a little too close to the local forms of government. Just as clearly, he can see the countermovement that will undoubtedly soon form on planets like Kenosha and New Athos, where more leftist forms of the ideology have always flourished. And even with the near-unlimited power at his disposal as an Ascended being, the best he can do now is monitor the situation and attempt to moderate the influences of both before they run the chance of tearing his hard-earned Confederation apart.

He should probably also name them before someone else does, if only so they wind up with something he can stand hearing for the next thirty thousand odd years.

Iohannes amuses himself with this for a while, if only because he's supposed to be non-political, or some other bullshit he'd agreed to when it had appeared his position as Emperor would never be more than ceremonial and that Elizabeta would always be around to do the heavy lifting, before Terra had sidestepped into the realm of nearly-enemies and the Lantean race had been reborn in a handful of Descendant exiles with less than a thimble of Alteran blood between them. He has political duties now and people to think about, and he misses having someone above him to tell him when he's wrong and stop him from making mistakes.

Emperors don't make mistakes.

Gods don't make mistakes.

He is _Invictus_. Unconquered. Invincible.

Maybe he should change his _cognomen_ to that once the Wraith are finally defeated. Iohannes Ianideus Invictus Imperator has a nice ring to it. And if he wants to shout loud enough for the higher planes to hear that _he_, Iohannes, who broke all their rules and threw them back in their incorporeal faces, had succeeded where they had not? Well, it's his prerogative. Hell, it's his right after all the hell they've put him through.

Maybe he should call her party _Moralists_. She's certainly used the words _duty_ and _moral obligation_ often enough, which is sort of funny because he'd thought she'd come to the city to complain about the Genii getting more slots in the first class of the University that was set to open come local winter. It's only on the sixteenth iteration of the phrase _set a proper example_, though, that Iohannes gets what it's really about:

"Y'know," he says, throwing an arm over the back of his chair, "this may be an awkward time to mention it, but when you joined this Confederation, you happened to sign a document that makes homosexual marriage legal."

Allina makes an aggrieved sound, though not for the reasons Iohannes immediately assumes. "I _do_ know, and while that's perfectly fine in principle, you have to think of the example you're setting."

"Not a fan of marriage, Minister Huskis?"

"Of course I support the institution of marriage," she informs him, momentarily thrown off balance - but only for a moment, and she regathers steam quickly. "But the very survival of our civilization depends upon ensuring that we maintains populations too large for the Wraith to cull in their entirety and that any survivors are genetically diverse enough to repopulate their worlds successfully. For that to be possible, every person capable of producing children ought to have at least one, regardless of their proclivities. On Dagan, our Minister for Education shares your preferences, my Lord, but even so he had two children with a similarly disposed woman before engaging in them. As Emperor, it is your _duty_ and _moral obligation_ to set a similar example for the peoples of this galaxy."

"I see."

Flustered again, "That's all you have to say? _I see_? You are The Star That Fell From Heaven, The Lord of the Land Beyond Death, The Father of All Men and Maker of All Worlds. You are Iohannes Ianideus Icarus Imperator, guardian of this galaxy and its moral centre. If _you_ do not act in the right, who will?"

It's only because Iohannes _is_ trying very hard to be the kind of emperor Pegasus deserves, the kind of god Elizabeta always wanted his people to be, that Iohannes doesn't roll his eyes at the Daganian Minister.

Instead, he lowers his arm from the back of his chair. He's straight-backed in his seat, in a office designed to impose and intimidate in the Central Spire, far from his private office and his hard-won trappings of mortality. He knows from practice that the weight of his gaze will force her to lower her eyes, maybe even take a step or two backwards in attempt to place some distance between them. And if he stares at her long enough, she will break the silence with words of her own, as Allina does now, almost tripping over herself to say:

"Not that I would ever presume to tell _you_ what to do, Your Apostolic Majesty. I only speak of what I would do, were I in your place."

"Uh-huh. And how many children do _you_ have, Minister?"

Allina ducks her head like an admonished child. "None, my Lord."

"So don't you think it's a little hypocritical to be telling me I _ought_ to have some?"

"Perhaps," she admits, raising her eyes again. They don't quite meet his, but they come a lot closer than anyone else has managed in this office. "But I would rather speak the truth and found lacking then hold my tongue and watch everything we've worked so hard to accomplish crumble."

"I hardly think the Confederation will fall if I fail to have children, Minister. But," he adds, raising a finger before she can renew her protests, "I will mention your concerns to Doctor McKay and we will both abide by his decision, whatever it may be."

"That is all I ask, my Lord," she says and, with slight bob, leaves just as quickly as she came.

Iohannes presses the heels of his hands to his forehead for one long moment. He counts to ten and takes a long, slow breath that serves no biological purpose whatsoever but seems to help all the same before bringing his hand to his earwig and telling Jinto to send the next one in.

* * *

**23 February, 2007 / XXXVII Apr. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus**

It's late when Rodney gets back to the suite – or really early, depending upon the perspective. He'd not honestly planned to stay in his lab until the small hours of the Lantean morning, but he'd had a thought about a way of improving his _Cogitatus_ (as John had so originally named his modified goa'uld memory recall device) after the meeting with the wedding planner, which had led to three hours of coding he'd honestly not factored into his schedule this morning.

(The three hours he'd spent complaining to Radek about how monumentality unfair it is that Kavanagh would undoubtedly earn a Nobel for his work in magnetic confinement fusion before Rodney earned any of his for the simple fact that Kavanagh's tokamak could be built using declassified technology and his couldn't probably hadn't helped matters either. But it _is_ momentously unfair, especially as all Kavanagh is doing modifying existing Terran technology with a little Ancient know-how, while Rodney's basically working to recreate Ancient science from the top down.)

Either way, he'd stayed in his lab far longer than he'd intended. He'd been surprised when he'd looked at the clock, not just to see how the hours had flown, but because John usually came to drag him off to bed long before then if whatever he was working on wasn't urgent. These late-night hours are all they reliably get to see each other anymore, what with all their responsibilities as _Imperator_ and _Rector_, and they guard them jealously.

The fact that John had not tried to pull him away from his work tonight probably means there's some minor crisis going on that requires his attention, so Rodney's expecting the suite to be empty when he enters. At first, it even appears to be – but that's before he hears the slight whisper of noise coming from the suite's little-used kitchen.

"John?" he calls out because, well, John has less reason than anyone to use the kitchen. It contains a coffee pot and a couple cans of Molson's and that's about it as far as anything edible goes – neither of which John particularly cared for before his Ascension. Of the rest, he thinks some of the drawers have been given over to random bits of broken technology, and that the racks designed for pots and pans have been repurposed for weapons that, again, John has little use for now, but largely it remains unused.

"In here."

"Is everything alright?" he asks, passing through the kitchen doorway-

-to find John sitting on the long, cushioned bench that runs along the far wall, just under the windows that would give a magnificent view of the ocean if it weren't nearly 0300. Of course, sitting might be pushing it a little. What he's doing is more akin to perching on the edge of one of the cushions and leaning forward until his head just about brushes the table in front of him. With his arms wrapped tightly around his middle and his usual layers abandoned for a simple tunic and pants, he looks like a lost and lonely child, more _Fallen_ then _The Star That Fall From Heaven._

"Everything's fine." His voice is a little too loud, a little too brittle to be normal, though. If Rodney didn't know any better, he'd say John's been crying, but in the nearly three years they've known each other – in the nearly two-and-a-half years they've been together – he's never once known John to cry.

"Doesn't look that way from here."

John lifts his head just enough to offer him a tight, splintery smile. "They did it." There's a touch of red about his eyes, a touch of pallor to his skin, but other than that there is nothing to suggest tears that, in all probability, never occurred.

"Who did what?"

"SG-1. They found Jackson and activated the Sangraal."

Rodney frowns as he pulls out one of the chairs opposite. "That's a good thing, right? No more Ori – or didn't it work?"

"Oh, no. It worked. The _Haeretici_ are gone, all of them but for the Abomination, Adria, who remains on this plane of existence. The greatest enemy the Alteran people ever faced, wiped out in less time than it takes to breathe…"

"And again, that's a good thing, right?"

"It's a good thing," John agrees, decidedly watery. "But they turned it on too soon. They didn't just get the _Haeretici_ in the home galaxy, they got everyone who ever Ascended in Avalon too. It's what I wanted, but... _Star Wars _had it wrong."

Rodney blinks at the sudden change of direction. "What's _Star Wars_ got to do with anything?"

"If Obi-Wan really had heard _a great disturbance […], as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced_, he'd not be standing around quietly afterwards. He'd be a gibbering mess too."


	2. Pars Dua

_Ascensiones_

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

**10 March, 2007 / XII Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus**

"Icarus."

There's a gasp from near Iohannes' knees, where a Kenoshan seamstress is putting the final touches on his Coronation robes, and a quick glance in the mirror shows a figure standing behind him that had not been there a second before. "Josua," he acknowledges before casting a glance back to the young woman. "You probably don't want to be around for this."

"No, milord," she mutters, quickly gathering her things before rushing out the door as fast as her legs can carry her.

Good for her. At least one of them can escape what is certain to be an unpleasant conversation.

They stand in silence for a minute or two.

For his own part, Iohannes decidedly doesn't turn around, choosing instead to examine his reflection in the mirror and take in the full effect of the elaborate silver embroidery down the front. It takes the shape of flowers and branches, moons and stars. It's a little more flamboyant than he'd have chosen for himself if given half the chance, but he'd left the details for his coronation in the hands of those rather more capable.

(-and, frankly, rather more interested. He could care less about his crown so long as having one means he can do what needs to be done to stop the Wraith.)

He can only hope that the ones being prepared for the wedding are less fussy. So far, the chances don't appear to be good.

"It is good to see that your fashion sense has improved over the millennia," Josua says at last, favouring Iohannes' reflection with a slight nod. "Though I find it curious you have gone to the trouble of having your clothing tailored when it is easily within your abilities to create any garments you should desire with but a thought."

"I have my reasons."

"You always did."

"Why are you here, Josua?" he sighs, turning around at last.

Had there been any sympathy in the other man's gaze, Iohannes thinks he might have been willing to hear him out. Unlike so many of the others, whose cold indifference had spurred a bitter hate within him, which had shattered with their deaths and left Iohannes numb inside for days, Josua Lal Tribunus had been a friend. Perhaps not a friend as the Terrans would define one, but a friend nonetheless. They had been children together, the only two in their generation, until Nicolaa had been born. They had played together, served in the War together; planned the city's defenses together. Perhaps they had not been close – becoming _pastor_ so young had decidedly quashed any possibly of that early on, – but they'd still been friends of a kind.

But there is none. Only hardness and sharpness and the lingering nostalgia for how simple everything had been Before, when they were still friends, when the Wraith were their only enemies and it seemed like the Alteran species would weather any storm, as it had done for a billion years already and would assuredly do for a billion more.

"Mother sent me."

"Yeah, I guessed that myself actually," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "How about some details here, buddy? Like why Ganos Lal decided to send her only child down to my little ol' plane of existence and scare off my seamstress? 'Cause I gotta tell you, that sort of thing right there smacks of interference."

"I will defer to your expertise on the matter," he says, and there's the hint of a smile that Iohannes had been looking for, but it's too late now. Then, more soberly, "Are you aware of the events your Terran brethren have precipitated?"

"It's kinda hard to miss the sound of a billion people crying out at once, especially when it leaves behind that kind of silence."

"Yes," Josua agrees quietly. "Then you are also aware that they activated the Sangraal too soon. The _Haeretici_ were not the only victims of the device. It was active long enough to slaughter every Ascended being in Avalon, as well as destroy whatever remained of those peaceable ones who Ascended in the home galaxy before the _Schisma._ Only those of us in Pegasus at the time were spared."

"And how many's that?"

"Fifty-four, counting yourself and the _Schismatica_."

Fifty-four survivors of the last iteration of the greatest race to ever touch the stars. Fifty-four out of the billions who'd ever lived. Fifty-four out of the millions who'd ever Ascended. It's difficult to wrap his head around. As much as he hates them for their part in his own Ascension, he's never actively wanted them destroyed. Showed up? Yes. Busted down a peg? Certainly. But destroyed? The thought had never even crossed Iohannes' mind.

He swallows. He can remember ten thousand years of silence just fine. He doesn't need to contemplate a future filled with more, not if he wants to keep what's left of his sanity. "Again, what does this have to do with me?"

"It is time to come home, Icarus."

"Atlantis _is_ home."

"Atlantis is for mortals. Ascended beings belong on the higher planes."

"Is that so?"

"You know it is, Icarus. Terrible things happen when folks like us start getting involved in the lower planes. The _Haeretici_ are merely the worst example."

Iohannes wants to shake him. "Stop blinding yourself with dogma, Josua. We weren't born to live just for ourselves. We were born with the privilege of strength into a society that conquered war and poverty and sickness long before our births; it's our _duty_ to help those less fortunate than ourselves, to keep them from making the same mistakes our people did."

"Mother taught us the same lessons. You know as well as I that every time we have tried to help younger species we have only ever given them the reins to their own destruction. Morderatus, Gaheris, Valuanii – we destroyed each of those worlds through our ignorance and our arrogance and created the _Haeresis_ in the process." He shakes his head. "No, Icarus. The only way to prevent more suffering is to let the universe take its course. Other blue worlds will be destroyed, yes, but others shall survive and their people will be the wiser for it."

"I'm not gonna stand by and watch people suffer when I can do something about it!"

"You will destroy yourself if you don't."

Iohannes throws up his hands and turns his back on Josua, furious at his obstinacy-

-but he can still see the other man in the mirror, his entire countenance filled with genuine concern. Ganos might have sent him here, but Josua honestly believes everything he's saying. He earnestly believes that, despite his best intentions, Iohannes will become a _Haereticus_; the only question is one of timing.

He wants to hate Josua. Everything would be so much easier if he could hate him. Yet Iohannes can easily remember a dozen times that Josua stood by his side Before, doing everything from making excuses to his mother about why Iohannes was not in class that day to helping him convince the Council to follow through on Iohannes' plans for what would eventually be the Battle of Tirianus. They'd never had the closeness he'd shared with Nicolaa (even before their relationship had turned romantic in nature), but he'd still been friendly.

It's with that friendship in mind Josua continues, "I cannot deny that you have done good works during your emperorship. You have ensured basic freedoms for those who, without your interference, would have remained underrepresented or disenfranchised for centuries to come. You have established a system to provide basic healthcare and elementary education to thousands. Most importantly, you have given all the peoples of this galaxy hope for the future and a means to bring that future about. You have achieved more in a single year than any Alteran has in twenty-five millennia.

"But now it is time to put aside those things. You are not of this plane. Your further presence here can only harm those you've fought so hard to protect; the fact that it has not already is a matter of chance, not providence.

"Return home with me, Icarus," he pleads. "Help us. Mother speaks of rebuilding our civilization. There has even been talk of finding a peaceable planet and Descending _en masse_, to give our species a second chance. But regardless of whatever is decided, your assistance would be invaluable. And you would not risk the lives of so many in the process."

Iohannes closes his eyes. It's not the offer that tempts him; it's the idea of finally _belonging_. But the Other's offer is too late. He's found a new people, a better cause. He has a place here. They want him.

"Or you could just Descend me."

Josua sighs. Whatever friendship they may have once had, it will not help him here.

He doesn't wait for a reply. "Or you could join me," he offers instead.

Josua blinks, visibly nonplussed by the suggestion.

"Join me," Iohannes repeats, turning at last back to face him. "All of you – Ganos, Chaya, everyone else who's still around. Think of all the good we could do if we worked together, all the people we could help – not just in this galaxy, but in all of them. The Descendants would easily accept a pantheon-"

"That is _Haeresis_."

"It's only _Haeresis_ if you actually start believing you're a god."

"That is not how it works, Icarus."

"As the guy currently doing just that, I think I know."

"How long did it take for you to start believing your own lies?" Josua asks, a strange sense of revelation passing over his face. "How much longer will it take for you to start giving over to the _Haeretici_'s excesses? Or is it too late for that as well?"

"You're being ridiculous."

"Am I? Then come with me now, while you still can. Stop this madness and save the lives of a billion people whose only fault was in having too much faith in a being no less fallible than themselves."

"I can't control what people think, Josua. All I can do is keep telling them I'm not a god. The people of this galaxy aren't stupid; their development has just been stymied because of the Wraith. One day they'll advance enough that they'll finally believe me. Until that day comes, all I can do is deal with it as best I can."

"Call it what you will, Icarus, it still looks like _Haeresis_ from where I stand." He shakes his head, something sad and heavy in his pale grey eyes. "I must tell Mother."

"Jo- Josuea!" he begins, but it's too late. Josua is gone, back to whatever corner of the higher planes he's been hiding in all these millennia.

Iohannes spins round and slams his fist into the mirror. The glass breaks, but the shards fall harmlessly to the ground, passing through his false flesh as if it were no more than a shadow.

"_Excors_!"

* * *

He finds Carson in his office on the tenth floor of Tower Forty, which after recent renovations is now serving as the main building for the IHC. There's still some construction work going on in the middle levels – as advanced as they Ancients were, they'd not needed anything resembling an ICU and as such building adequate intensive care facilities where there had been none is not a small task – but this floor, at least, is finished, if only because they'd not needed to make any major changes to the layout to get suitable offices for the medical staff.

Though they _had_ added placards next to all the doors, so that people would actually have half an idea of _where they were_ and _where they were going_ when they ended up transported somewhere they hadn't intended. John had disliked the idea, saying, "_If you immediately know the candlelight is fire, then the meal was cooked a long time ago_," but had been overruled by the rest of the senior staff on the matter.

John had pouted for days after that decision. Though that might have had something more to do with the recent deployment of the Sangraal, which had wiped out nearly every Ascended being in existence, then the ballistic office supplies Zelenka had threatened to send in his direction if he didn't let them have their way.

Either way, Rodney finds Carson in the office actually marked _Carson Beckett_ – a mark-the-calendars first – with the doors stuck in the open position, giving a clear view of the chaos within: Half-a-dozen packing crates crowd the entry way. Piles of charts and reference materials are stacked haphazardly upon every flat surface, more than one of them threatening to slide to the floor at the first clack of the air recycling units. A painter's ladder leans inexplicably against one wall, apparently secunded for use as a valet stand. No less than three of the long-sleeved robes Teyla's seamstress friends keep making for them hang from the rungs; his lab coat has missed the ladder entirely and lies in a heap at its foot.

In the centre of it all is Carson, who's actually managed to fall asleep at his desk, which is in itself an impressive feat as Rodney's not actually sure how he managed to get _behind_ his desk in the first place. There's no clear pathway through the clutter and, unless it closed behind him, Rodney rather thinks a point-to-point transporter – of the _Star Trek _variety – has to have been used.

"Carson," he says, manoeuvring between stacks.

There's no response.

"Carson," he tries again, rather more loudly this time, wedging himself into the space between the desk and the visitors' chairs, both piled high with a riot of luridly coloured binders – pink and neon green, canary yellow and cadmium orange.

There's still no response.

There are a few empty square inches of desktop within reach and, for lack of a better option, Rodney slams his hands down on the heavy metal surface. Files shift. Journals slide. A cup filled with pens, tenuously perched on one of the outer stacks, smashes to the floor with an explosion of ink and cheap ceramic.

"Wow. That actually is kind of impressive," he admits with a strange sort of awe when Carson doesn't so much as stir. "Figure out how to bottle this and we could fund Atlantis for a lifetime." Shaking his head, he says, "Paging Doctor Beckett," more out of exasperation then real expectation.

Carson's head snaps up. A sheet of paper sticks to one side of his face as his hands go for a beeper that's not on his belt – or, thankfully, anywhere in this galaxy.

"I cannot believe that just worked. In fact, I refuse to believe it. You are the Chief of Medicine, the guy who I'm supposed to trust with his hands messing around with my insides, and I'm going to go on deluding myself that you sleep regular hours _in your own bed_ and don't have what looks like a stick figure dog on your face. Purely for my own sanity, I hope you understand. "

"I thought you said sleep was for the weak?" Carson asks, sounding remarkably awake considering how deeply he'd been asleep less than a minute before. He unsticks the sheet of paper off his face and turns it around with a frown. "And it is supposed to be a sheep."

"God, that's just worse. I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. So I'm going to ask you why you aren't having your minions do your paperwork instead of devoting brain power to coming up with an adequate response to that."

"This is nae paperwork, Rodney."

"You still have minions."

"Not that I'd trust with this."

"What is it?" he asks, only distantly interested, moving some of the binders from one chair to another. The additional weight causes the second chair to creak dangerously. Rodney decides he doesn't really need to sit down after all.

"My notes on Michael."

Maybe he does need to sit down. "Carson…" he begins awkwardly, unsure where to go from there. There's no safe ground.

"I know what you're going to say. I know Laura's death was nae my fault. Be-" he chokes up a little here, "Being fed upon is a traumatic experience. Her heart just could nae take it. Nothing I could have done could have saved her. But the Wraith retrovirus was my idea, as was the live trial. I had Michael brought here. My experiment failed. I as good as killed her."

_No, _he wants to say. _Your experiment failed, but John killed her. He killed her because you could have saved her and she didn't want to be saved. Not if it meant the kind of life she would have had after. _But he can't, because he made a promise, so what he says instead is, "No you didn't. You did exactly what you should have. None of us could have guessed he'd manage to escape like he did."

"He'd never have been on Atlantis-"

"And _she_'d never have been on Atlantis if O'Neill had never discovered the Antarctic Outpost and Jackson hadn't found the Gate address. And we'd never have done either of those if some Ancient hadn't left really creepy Repositories of Knowledge throughout the Milky Way. And humanoid life wouldn't even _be_ on Earth if the Ancients hadn't lost their war with the Ori sixty-something million years ago. You start pointing fingers here and soon enough you're start blaming the universe for expanding."

Carson rubs a hand across his eyes. This only seems to increase their redness. "Logically, I know that, Rodney, but my heart keeps telling me that I could have saved her if only I'd done something different."

"Don't tell me you've been working on it all this time." He can be unobservant at times, but Rodney's certain he'd have noticed if Carson'd been working himself up into this state every night since Cadman's death. Carson's his best friend. As busy as Rodney has been, as wrapped up as he's been with everything that's been going on with John, he _had_ to have noticed that much. He _had_ to.

"Nae. I've tried nae to think about it, actually. And I've been so busy, what with everything else that I've nae had time. But then I looked at the calendar last night and realized that realized she's been gone for almost a year and…"

And so he pulled out his notes and did the only thing he could: try to figure out what he could have done differently to save her.

Rodney understands. He really does. He's done the same too many times to honestly count and will, undoubtedly, only add to that figure in the future. He knows how destructive it can be, how dangerous. Hell, the proof's in its port behind the mastoid skin of his right ear. "What you need," he says sagely, "is a distraction."

"A distraction?" Carson repeats with an air of tired amusement and half a watery smile.

"Yes. Like you've said, it's been almost a year, and while I've got to admire the whole _dedication to your dead girlfriend_ thing you've got going on, I'm pretty sure she'd be kicking your ass ten ways to Sunday if she could see you now."

"Aye, that's true."

"So what do you think about Keller?"

"Keller!"

"What? She's moderately intelligent and not exactly hard to look at. What more could you want?"

"That sounds like your type, Rodney, nae mine."

Rodney considers this. "Alright, you've got me there. But don't worry, I've got an even better way to take your mind off things."

"Oh?"

"I need you," he says, pulling a small box out of his pocket, "to put this into my brain."


	3. Pars Dua et Dimidia

Ascensiones

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

Pars 2.5

* * *

**10 March, 2007 / XII Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus**

In the end, it's the rather cavilling fact that the device Rodney wants inserted into his head doesn't actually get put into his _brain_ that convinces Carson to agree to preform the surgery. Granted, as far as Rodney's concerned, sticking a small computer bus the size of his thumbnail into his spinal cord between his C2 and C3 vertebrae _is_ the same as having what essentially amounts to a mental expansion card _inserted into his brain_, but he's not about to quibble if hair-splitting gets him the results he desires.

-although _desire_ might be underselling things a bit. _Need_ would probably be more accurate a term, but that's more prevaricating he'd rather not get into when doing so could mean the difference between survival and destruction.

The story goes like this:

The _Cogniatus _is flawed. Fundamentally. Rodney designed it on Earth to work with the technology he had access to at the time – which is to say, computers with clock rates of a few gigahertz and processing power barely approaching a dozen petaflops. Compared to the human brain, this is piffling. The data any one of these was capable of sending over the neural uplink was insignificant compared to the quotidian functionality of his mind. A bucket of water would have more effect upon a reservoir; side effects rarely included more than a headache and the occasional dizzy spell.

But Rodney's not on Earth any longer. On Atlantis, even the most primitive of Terran computers is networked to the city to such a degree that, on some level, they're no longer distinguishable from the city's own AI. 'Lantis has absorbed everything, from the earwigs all personnel wear to their personal computers all the way on up to the server banks that the Second Expedition thinks are too heavily encrypted and firewalled for the expatriates of the First to crack.

This is the mistake the had made when designing his first device. There is no division between the city and the AI. Where there is an integrated circuit, there is 'Lantis. Where there is a hard disk drive or solid-state disk, 'Lantis is there as well. And where there is an embedded computer or wireless connection or peripheral device, some portion of the city's consciousness exists, waiting to call the rest of her great and terrible concentration upon the poor soul who sparked her interest at any given moment. Which is precisely what has happened each time Rodney's tried to use the _Cogniatus_ since returning home.

Simply put, Atlantis is capable of sending exponentially more data through the neural link than Rodney anticipated, and although the human mind is far superior to any Terran computer, even it has its limits. There is only so much data it can process at any given time and when that maximum is reached it looks for background programs to stop running so it can try to process more – _background programs_ in this instance being things like _tactile perception _and _cardiovascular function_.

This is, naturally, a problem. What Rodney eventually realizes, however, is that John and Lorne have the _exact same problem_. Their nanoids allow them to interact with the city in the exact same way his _Cogniatus _is meant to simulate, but, unlike Rodney, they don't go keeling over every time 'Lantis wants to debate interior design with them. It makes no sense-

-until he goes back to the reservoir metaphor. Because just as a reservoir has a limit of how much water it can hold, it also has spillways to deal with anything extra that comes its way. And, like a spillway, John and Lorne's nanoids are capable of taking all those pesky background programs that would otherwise be shut down and outsourcing them to a place that can more than handle it. Atlantis sends data in, they send data right back, and everybody gets to continue to breathe as they should.

Which is what the latest device he's created is designed to do. It can be that spillway for his mind. So Rodney can keep breathing. So his heart can keep beating. So the headaches will go away and he can maybe keep a meal down on the days following his use of the _Cogniatus_.

It's only after he explains all of this that Carson agrees to preform the procedure. He's still understandably leery, but apparently sticking a tiny chip through the disc that separates Rodney's C2 and C3 vertebrae so that it can brush up against his spinal cord is less upsetting to the good doctor than preforming traditional brain surgery. But again, Rodney won't quibble. Not on this. He needs the _Cogniatus_ if they are to keep one step ahead of the Wraith and the Replicators and the Second Expedition and all the other enemies waiting at their door. An emperor not yet crowned, twenty-four Terran exiles, and what technologies they can beg, build, or scrounge hold the Confederation together. If they falter, nearly two hundred planets will fall with them.

He can only hope John forgives him when he finds out.


	4. Pars 3 1

Ascensiones

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

3.1

* * *

**19 March, 2007 / IXX Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus**

"Would someone care to explain to me," Iohannes says, gesturing at one of the chairs stacked in the corner and waving it into the centre of the room, "why two of my scientists thought it might be a good idea to get into a kerfuffle with four of the new Expedition's rather rugged young Marines?

"Now, don't get me wrong," he adds, somewhat ameliorant as he spins the chair around to sit in it backwards, "I admire the moxie. It's not often a couple of botanists with three doctorates and four asthma medications between them decide to start a lop-sided brawl, particularly with guys who have ten years and twenty pounds of muscle on them. I just think it's a little odd, because usually my scientists have much better sense then to get into fistfights. Especially when I made it very clear before the new Expedition arrived that we're _not_ trying to start an intergalactic war." Very clear.

Doctor Brandon Nelson continues to nurse his broken jaw with silent fury, not quite meeting Iohannes' eyes but not actively avoiding them either. The sleeves of his _houpelande_ flop back where he holds an ice pack to the break as he waits for Doctor Keller to return with whatever it is Terrans need to fix an injury of this sort. Both of his knuckles are bruised and bloodied, and from the way he's holding the left Iohannes wouldn't be surprised if he's managed to break something there as well. Nelson had gotten in a couple of good punches before having his lights knocked out, that much is obvious, as is the fact that he doesn't have the first clue how to hit someone. Again, tenacious. Stupid too.

Doctor Zachary Richards, who's only managed to break a wrist in the process of getting two black eyes and a busted lip, lowers the rag he's holding to his lip long enough to say, "They deserved it, Sheppard."

"I'm sure they did," Iohannes agrees. "But that doesn't mean you should give it to them."

"It does if you'd heard the kind of things they were saying."

"Enlighten me, Doctor Richards."

Eyes going wide, "No, Sir. No way," he says, shaking his head harder than is probably advisable for someone with the number of cuts and bruises on his face. One of the ones on his cheek opens itself at the movement, sending a steady stream of blood down his neck, staining his collar a dark, brilliant red. Richards doesn't appear to notice.

"I see. What about you, Doctor Nelson? You feel like sharing with the class?"

Despite his broken jaw, Nelson actually manages a halfway intelligible, "Uh huh," before hurrying to replace his icepack, glowering at it out of the corner of his eye as if _it_ were responsible for his current condition and not some Marine's fist.

Iohannes shakes his head. "Don't make me regret this, you two," he orders, reaching towards their injuries with both hands and calling upon his healing powers.

With the coronation party still going strong on the far side of the city, the energy replenishes itself faster than he can expend it. He sends as much of it as he dares into Richards and Nelson, not only healing their injuries, but also lowering their blood alcohol level back to zero and clearing out the excess plaque in their veins. In the latter, Iohannes finds the start of an _epithelioma basocellulare_ and purges the damaged cells from his body much as he'd done with Dahlia Radhim's _leuchaemia_. In the former, he does what he can to lower the hypertension he finds, although there is admittedly very little he can do that will have lasting effect. Only when he's healed all he can without delving into their genes that he pulls back.

But there's still too much power coursing through his veins – too much _faith_ screaming at him to _take_ and _hold _and _seize_ as much of it as he can for as long as he can, until there's no one left in the universe with capability to hurt the ones he loves.

It's not a new problem. Faith is power. Those who would call him god have been unwittingly strengthening him since the moment he Ascended. And while the faith of one is admittedly small, no more than a thimbleful compared to the innate power of an Ascended being, the faith of millions is a different story entirely.

And it is now truly the faith of millions: Two hundred thirteen planets in the Pegasus galaxy are now signatories to the Charter of the Confederation with another two-dozen in high-level talks to join. The number that considers him a god is almost four times as large. That's ten percent of the inhabited galaxy. It's not even been a year since he admitted to little Raichael Pero – now called _Sancta Rachel_ on certain worlds – that he was one of their Ancestors. On some days, Iohannes can scarcely imagine what it will be like when all of Pegasus calls out his name in their prayers. It is so easy to see how so many fell to the first _Haeresis_.

It would be so easy to fall.

It wouldn't even be a fall. All he would have to do is take that last step and fly and fly and fly.

Richards looks at him, no longer swollen eyes full of awe. They're wide, as if he'd forgotten the healing portion of Iohannes' Ascended abilities or, maybe, never having thought he'd rank high enough to benefit from them, and such a dark brown they're more easily called black.

A tendril of faith reaches out to him from the young botanist, so impossibly young looking at that moment, though there are others younger by far in the city tonight.

Iohannes pulls back his hands as if scalded.

That's not supposed to happen. The Terrans are supposed to know better. All of them. Even the botanists.

Doctor Nelson just lowers his icepack and tests his newly healed jaw. "Thank God."

"Forget the thanks. Frankly, I'd prefer the story of how you broke it."

"Not much to tell, Sheppard. They said some things they shouldn't have and I lost my temper, and Zach here tried to help me out."

"What kinds of things?"

"Nothing much at first. We left the party before they did, but were moving kind of slow cause I had a little too much of Doctor Zelenka's moonshine – thanks for saving me from the hangover, by the way; I was not looking forward to that – so they caught up with us before too long. We overheard Corporal Howell say something about the coronation your morning and how, if it was so fancy, what's your wedding going to be like? You know, that kind of stuff.

"But then Sergeant Carr wondered which of you is going to take the woman's part, which led to Sergeant Herrera trying to figure out who takes the woman's part elsewhere, if you know what I mean. Sir," he tacks on ungracefully, checks stained red beneath the flecks of dried blood that still remain.

Iohannes raises an eyebrow. Ascended or not, Terran prejudices about sexuality are something he's resigned himself to never understanding. "If you started an intergalactic incident over something Zelenka has a betting pool over, I'm going to be very disappointed in the both of you."

"Yessir. I mean, no, Sheppard. It wasn't that. Not just that. It's what they said after. About how you, er, must be a really good lay if you could convince Major Lorne to give up the uniform."

His eyebrow climbs higher. "Well, that's moderately original at least. Still not a reason to cause an intergalactic incident, though."

Richards shakes his head, speaking up at last. The whisper of his faith is still there, but it's quiet, lurking in the shadows, flaring at the most unexpected of times. It's the worst kind of faith, if only because it allows Iohannes to forget what they really think of him until the moments where it's impossible to ignore. "It wasn't that either. I mean, it was bad, but the Marines say things like that all the time trying to get a rise out of those of us who came here on _Aurora_; some of the civilians too. Disgusting as it is, we've kind of learned to ignore it. Gunny must have thought so, 'cause he lit into the sergeants for suggesting it."

"Mighty nice of him."

"Yeah," Nelson snorts, "until he said that whatever _hold_ you have over the Major is some kind of black magic. Said that they were idiots to believe you are who you say you are, that you're just a wolf in sheep's clothing, and the day will come when we'd all see you are worse than the Ori."

A breath Iohannes does not need lodges itself in his throat, congealing into an unpalatable and impassable tumescence that straightens his shoulders and curls his hands into fists where they rest on the metal back of his chair. The coldest of furies rouses in his stomach, leeching into his heart and sending terrible tides of ice water through his veins. He's given up _everything_ for this galaxy. He's Ascended _twice_ because of them. He's allowed them to crown him _imperator_, to call him _God. _He's crossed every line he's ever made himself for their sakes, to protect them, to _save_ them from the Wraith and the Asurans and the _Haeretici_ and every other nightmare his people had left behind. He's given every broken inch of himself fighting their wars and playing their politics and trying to keep them alive. He spent ten thousand years and more in the dark and the silence, never having anything for himself until he reached out and took it.

He hadn't hated his life Before, but he'd kill to keep the one he has now – he _has_ killed for it – and nothing some snotty-nosed Terran Marines, who may have spent their entire adult lives waging their planet's wars but know absolutely _nothing_ about fighting when there's nothing less than the survival of themselves and everyone they hold dear on the line can do to jeopardize that. But still his muscles tauten and blood rushes like liquid helium through his veins. Iohannes thinks that if the gunnery sergeant in question had been in the room at right then, his actions would have been utterly beyond his control. No body, just constituent atoms released from their bonds too quickly to settle down into a nice pile of ash.

But the gunny _isn't_ there. He's across the ward with his comrades, weaving some excuse to Argathelianus and Major Teldy about how the big bad botanists tried to jump them, or something.

"I see," Iohannes says at last, though no more than seconds can have passed. His voice sounds remarkably normal, even to his own ears. "In that case, I guess I should be having this talk with the Marines. And, in the meantime, you two should get some sleep, 'cause you'll be reporting to Ronon first thing in the morning for hand-to-hand training. Unless," he adds archly, stalling their protestations, "you'd like to make it for every morning for a month."

"Yes sir," Richards agrees glumly.

Iohannes pushes himself out of the chair and sends it, slowly spinning, back to its corner. It looks like he has a gunnery sergeant to talk to.


	5. Pars Tria et Dimidia

Ascensiones

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

3.2

* * *

**19 March, 2007 / IXX Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus**

The tiles are bitter cold against his knees, even through the heavy fustian of his robes. The sleeves keep getting in the way, sliding down Rodney's forearms every time he leans forward, but he'd been too much of a hurry to deal with the get-up's thousand-and-one buttons when this began and now he can't find the strength to move away long enough to rid himself of it. Even the thought of pulling away proves to be too much and with an unintelligible moan Rodney bows once more to the porcelain throne.

When he finally leans back, it's only far enough to rest his forehead on the rim. It, at least, is pleasantly cool against his brow, which gives him something to think about other than the thing that's finally finished dying in his mouth.

/Do you intend to die in this washroom,/ the city asks wryly, /or should we send for medical assistance?/

Rodney groans and, feeling there's no danger of him throwing up again as there's no way on Earth – or Lantea – that there's anything left in his stomach after the last four times, collapses on the floor. The toilet offers an uninspiring vision in the foreground, but the position at least allows him to glare at the ceiling with only the smallest of efforts. "I totally understand all those times John called you a bitch now."

'Lantis, being 'Lantis, raises the lights in the room to twice their normal brightness before dropping them back to a merciful ten percent in retaliation. /The universe is the one at fault,/ 'Lantis corrects. /We are just the poor, unfortunate _urbs-navis_ who'd rather we didn't have to wash blood out of our grout again, yours in particular./

"Not bleeding," Rodney corrects, stomach rolling.

/We are not all that fond of _any_ bodily fluids being where they were not intended./

"I'll remember that in case my stomach manages to find something else it wants to get rid of." He doesn't think it's likely, but the organ has been surprising him today with the things it's managed to dredge up out of the dark recesses of his digestive track. Last week's lunch, for instance, and what he's fairly certain was the remains of his high school's infamous Meatloaf Surprise, where the only surprise, as far as Rodney had been able to ascertain, was that anyone had thought to call it _meatloaf_.

/Thank you,/ the city says primly.

"You're welcome."

Her song shifts, becoming light-hearted, playful even. If she were human, he imagines she'd be shaking her head at him and trying not to smile. But she is not human; her winsome affections take shape in dimmed lights and quieted air recycling units, but the meaning is the same. He's only been _pastor_ for a week, but he's suspected as much since the moment he first heard her song in his head so many years ago. /Do you still require medical assistance?/

What Rodney needs is his own bed, a handful of Aspirin, and his body weight in water. He's had more to drink tonight than he can honestly remember, but it had started with _ruus_ wine at the dinner celebrating John's coronation, moved briefly to champagne while supplies held out at the party afterwards, and settled on a nameless cocktail that was one part pineapple juice and two parts arrack. He'd not intended to drink that much, but, _god,_ people are stupid sometimes. While they hadn't gotten any less stupid, Rodney had been less inclined to care with each passing drink, until finally he was drunk enough that he could deal with the overenthusiastic well-wishers, would-be hangers-on, and political opportunists that had flocked to his side when they'd been unable to find John's.

What he needs is never to hear the phrases _The God's Consort_ or _The Ancestor's Intended_ appended to his name ever again. Not because they aren't true enough, but because everyone who'd spoken them tonight had made it out to be all that he was. Like he wasn't _rector _of Atlantis in his own right, like his greatest accomplishment was not the ATLAS Device or the Intergalactic Gate Bridge or the pair of devices of his own devising shoved into his brain that allowed him to talk to Atlantis, but the fact that he'd been able to get John into his bed. Which had made him drink still more.

What he needs is for people to remember that the _Wraith_ are the enemy, not the worlds that want the Confederation to take a different path than they do. Allina Huskis' association of religiously motivated corporatists, the _Moralists_, wants little better than to shape the galaxy to their vision of the Ancestral religion. Dozens of worlds have flocked to her banner, her pseudoscientific excuses giving way to scripture as her powerbase grows. Dozens of others have banded together to oppose them under the leadership of one of the Athosians, spouting many of the same thoughts but replacing much of the god rhetoric with socialist economic theory of much the same bent. John calls them the _Mutualists_, though their politics are even more _proto_ than Allina's. Even the ones not belonging to either party have their own agendas and none of them stop at getting rid of the Wraith. And all of them want him to carry their words to John, who cannot be bothered to stay for longer than twenty minutes at a party in his own honour.

"I think I'll be fine if I can make it to the transporter," he says at last. From there, it's a straight shot to his suite, his bed, and – if necessary – his bathroom.

/The _vectura_ is at the end of the hall./

"I think I can manage it this time without any more detours." His stomach protests but is ultimately quiescent as he eases to his feet.

/Perhaps you should wait. Let us send for Iohannes,/ the city suggests, air recyclers clattering concernedly, /or Argathelianus./

"I'm a big boy, 'Lantis. I don't need someone to tuck me in."

/That is not what… we… mean…/ The city begins only to trail off as he leaves the washroom, faltering as Rodney discovers the cause of her hesitation: one of John's sycophants, standing just outside the washroom door as if she'd been waiting for him. Which she most certainly has.

Awkwardly, "Oh. Hello Allina. I didn't, er, see you there," he greets the Daganian Minster for Enterprise and Innovation, moving out of the doorway just enough so as not to get caught in the doors – which 'Lantis promptly shuts behind him, as if afraid he'll duck back inside if she leaves them open. Damnable city. Barely a week in his head and she already knows him too well.

She smiles at him in a way that is, if not honest, is at least warm. "That would be my own fault, I fear. Much of my early training in The Brotherhood involved learning to move unseen, the better to guard our secrets from the unlearned. I have never quite been able to shake myself of the habit."

"That's… nice. I'm just gonna go ahead and…" He waves a vague hand towards the end of the hall and the transporter that waits – with open doors – for him.

"Oh, no. Please don't go."

"Yeah… Now's not a really good time to talk? Maybe tomorrow? Or maybe you should just talk to John about it. Whatever it is. I really don't have a lot to do with the running of the Confederation. I really can't help you with, well, whatever it is you want."

"You are an intelligent man, Doctor McKay. Perhaps the most astute I have ever known. I am sure that we can find a way to help each other."

"Strangely enough, I don't really need any help right now," he informs the Minister, edging unsteadily towards the transporter, "but maybe some other time."

Allina reaches out, more quickly than his alcohol-addled brain can quite process, and grabs his wrist. Her hold is solid. He cannot break it and trying only worsens the dig of her nails into his flesh. He already knows the bruise will be terrible come a reasonable hour of the morning.

"Do not go, Doctor," she begs fervently. "There is so much we can do for one another and our common cause."

"Our cause?" he asks stupidly, unable to tear his eyes from where they grip his arm. Her skin is dark from the sun, her gown just the right shade of pale green to make her rather comely features seem impressive beyond measure. There are dozens of women still at the party more attractive than she, but she is the one pulling him near and, were he not with John, perhaps that would be enough for him to go along with whatever she wants to happen next.

But he _is_ with John. They'll be married in two months and, even if they weren't, it's hard to want to be with anyone else when Rodney already has everything he's ever wanted.

"If the Wraith could be defeated with mere weapons, they would have been overcome long ago."

_"I think you're seriously overestimating your weapons,"_ he wants to say. What comes out is, "Let go of my arm," his voice sounding faint and far away through the rush of blood in his ears.

If Allina hears, she pays it no mind; such is the ardency of her beliefs. "The Ancestors are mighty, but we are not. They only wait for the day we are strong enough to stand beside them to begin the final battle against the darkness. The Lord Iohannes has taken us down the first step towards the War of Wars, but there is a long way yet to go. Only by ensuring our children have enough strength of blood and bone, muscle and sinew, mind and morals to continue the battle will the war be won."

Rodney thinks of the university John has endowed and the classes set to begin there next week, its opening delayed only by the need to screen applicants – a task Rodney had gleefully passed off to Zelenka. He thinks about the Argosy Ronon has been training on Genia since the Second Exodus and the first graduates thereof, who'd marched in the Coronation. Both are but the latest examples of everything John's done for this galaxy.

But what he says is, "Let go of me."

"I have no wish to harm you, but you must understand, the very fate of the galaxy is at stake. I only press the matter because you are the Lord's consort. He will listen to your council."

"Let go."

At length she does, but she's still too close. His head is reeling and his stomach rolling and all he wants is to be in his own bed, but he'll settle for Alluna taking a step or two outside of his personal bubble. She's still close enough that he can smell her perfume over the lingering stench of alcohol and sick clinging to his clothes. All his drinking has left Rodney flushed, but the warmth of her body still threatens to seep through the front of his robes. Blood continues to thunder in his ears, deafening his already dimmed thoughts. If he were sober, he might have asked 'Lantis to send for John or Lorne after all. But he's far from it and says instead, "Thank you," drunkenly full of offended dignity and low on common sense.

Maybe she is as well. Maybe she only sees an opportunity to press her advantage. Either way, Allina only moves closer and places the hand that had captured his wrist on his chest, directly over his heart. "You are an exceptional man, Doctor McKay. I have heard it said that you are the smartest man in two galaxies, if not more. You _must_ know the truth of my words. I do not expect your affection. You cannot give me that, I know. But I know that once you felt some tenderness for me, and that may be enough."

"Enough for what?" he somehow manages to ask, though his head is spinning.

Allina is a politician, the Master Handler of the Sudarian Quindosim. She'd used him and his team to find her precious _potentia_ and taken it from them at gunpoint when she'd learned that none of them were her beloved Ancestors – or, at least, admitting to such at the time. Even now that she knows what John really is, she hasn't handed over the ZedPM, although the whole purpose of her order was to present it to her gods upon their return. She uses people, abandons them, and calls it divine will. Her latest _cause célèbre_ has something to do with population bottlenecks and inbreeding depression and the end of days, but Rodney doesn't know what she expects him to do it at 0130 in the morning, half-drunk drunk and unable to even pretend to care.

"For you to give me a child," she says, as if it were the only obvious conclusion. Perhaps, for her, it is, but Rodney's mind quickly replays all of the interaction he's ever had with the woman, little as it is, and comes up significantly wanting. "Even a single child of your bloodline would be a great boon to this galaxy. The chance to bear that child is all I ask."

But those are only words, and for all Allina _says_ them, Rodney can't quite parse their _meaning_ until her hand starts sliding down his chest, towards his belt It's only then that he realizes what's happening, what she wants, and then the bile rises in his throat once more. He'd give anything to stop this, to make her back off, to make her just _go away_, but he's drunk and starting to panic and forming a thought much more complicated than _stop_ just isn't happening.

Rodney thinks he's going to be sick. This isn't happening. This _can't_ be happening. There is no earthly reason _why_ this might be happening to him. Things like this just don't happen to people like him, no matter how drunk they might be. He's engaged. He's on Atlantis. He's got a pair of devices shoved in his head so he can _talk_ to Atlantis. He-

-thinks he's going to be sick, if his head doesn't explode first.

And then, like magic, Allina flies backwards, away from his belt and all the things he couldn't want less, and crashes into the wall two-and-a-half yards behind. The plaster cracks under her weight. A trickle of blood follows her body to the floor.


	6. Pars 3 3

Ascensiones

3.3

* * *

**19 March, 2007 / IXX Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus**

It was so easy to be brave, Before. The only thing he had to lose back then had been his life and what was that compared to the chance that Atlantis would be able to stand for a day – an hour – a minute more? She had done so much for him, though she would deny it all in all but her most petulant moments. His life was so little compared to everything she was, everything she would be. The consequences of her Fall would be beyond imagining, while his own death would have been such a little thing in the balance.

But now…

He would still die for Atlantis. He would still give up his life for any member of the Expedition, old or new, if that would insure their safety. That hasn't changed.

What _has_ changed is the fact that he cannot die. He can never die, not until the others release him from his senseless punishment. Until then he has no choice but to carry on, watching helplessly as everyone he loves dies, again and again and again, until the only thing he knows is death and loss and pain.

And he has so much to lose now:

His city.

His worshipers.

His family.

His crown.

Rodney.

Losing Rodney terrifies him most of all. Rodney has been at the heart of every decision he was made since the moment his _amator_ found him in the _cathedra_ so long ago. Who he is, what he is, what he's willing to do – there is no aspect of his new life that Rodney has not had a part in. Iohannes isn't sure he wants to know what he'll become without him.

Oh, he'll survive Rodney's death. He somehow managed to survive the extinction of his race. He's sure he can do it again, if he has to. Survival is his best – and maybe only – skill. But he cannot speak as to the kind of man he'll be at the end of it. Even the mere _idea_ of Rodney dying fills him with a white-hot anger that he doesn't care to examine too closely, for fear of what he'll find. The actuality only promises to be worse.

It's this fear that has him flickering to Rodney's side before the words _medical emergency_ are fully spoken, without thought of the consequences.

It's this fear that has him falling to his knees beside his _amator_'s sprawled body, hands aglow, without taking note of the scene around him.

It's this fear that turns his blood to ice when Rodney protests weakly, "No, stop," when Iohannes' hand touches his shoulder and attempts to shrug him off.

"_Rodney_," he entreats, removing his hand – and his healing power – with great reluctance. "It's me. It's Iohannes – it's John," he corrects hastily, not willing to trust Rodney's life to his reasoning abilities when he's four-fifths of the way to unconsciousness on the floor. "I just wanna help you, okay? Let me help you, please."

It is a minor lifetime before Rodney manages to breathe, "John?" eyelids fluttering but far from opening.

"Yeah, buddy. I'm here."

"Please."

Not trusting his voice, Iohannes takes that as leave to do what he can to fix whatever it is that has Rodney all but passed out on the floor, not a hundred yards from where the party celebrating the coronation he neither wanted or required is still raging. Although he is expecting to find something catastrophic – poison, perhaps, or inflammation of some critical organ, or even an allergic reaction, – what he finds is a great deal of alcohol and a few bruises. Both of which are worrisome, yes, but neither constitute a medical emergency by any means. As relieved as Iohannes is, it doesn't make any sense.

"What happened?" Rodney asks tiredly moment later. He takes a long moment to decide that, yes, he wants to take the weight off the arm trapped beneath him and roll onto his back.

"I dunno. I was hoping you'd tell me."

"I'm not- It's all kind of a blur, really," he says, struggling to sit up. "I was, er, talking with Allina and then…" He makes a vague motion with the hand he's not using to push himself up with, which Iohannes then grabs and uses to haul Rodney to his feet.

"Allina?"

Which is, naturally, when Carson and his team of scarily competent nurses come pouring out of the _vectura_, half-a-dozen medical bags and a back brace between them. After the most cursory of looks, they turn their attentions to the other person in the hall, the one Iohannes has somehow managed to miss in his panic to get to Rodney, despite the blood flowing freely the back of her head. The plaster is cracked above her, dented with an impression of her body that goes almost all the way down to the superconductive lining deep inside. Yet more blood stains the wall, slowly dripping to the floor, and when the medics take her away, he sees hairline fractures in the flooring beneath the puddle that had formed underneath her.

_Oh,_ Iohannes thinks. _This isn't how it is supposed to go at all_.

* * *

"I'm fine, John," Rodney lies, staring at his hands rather than watch John circle the room like a caged animal, waiting for the chance to pounce on any hapless nurse to pass through the doors.

"I found you semiconscious with a blood alcohol level of point two six."

"Yes, but you healed me. I'm fine now."

John dismisses this out of hand. "You're not fine."

"Yes I am."

"You're shaking."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"It's cold in here," he says defensively, crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his armpits.

It's true too. Rodney's never been in an examination room that's a comfortable temperature, and this one is positively freezing. That would be Carson's doing, of course. Some absurd barber-surgeon belief that lower temperatures will reduce the chances of infection a way 'Lantis, with her force fields and impossibly advanced medical equipment, can not that he's managed to talk the city into going along with, probably. "Medieval medical sophistry," he adds, and this time Rodney hears the chattering of his teeth in his words, tastes the chill of his skin on his lips.

John frowns. He pauses at the head of the examination table upon which Rodney is perched and, with a flick of his wrist, produces a heavy, impossibly soft blanket that bears remarkable resemblance to the one they'd once shared in his sister's guest room during John's brief visit to Earth so long ago. "It's eighteen degrees," he tells him, wrapping the blanket around him like an adult would do with a small child. Rodney thinks this should probably offend him, but he's too tired and cold to care right now. Maybe later.

"You're in shock."

"What?" Rodney squeaks. He knows it's a squeak, is mortified to say it same out of his own lips when he wasn't being tortured, or threatened with torture, or r-

His tongue trips over itself in attempt to avoid the rest of that thought.

"No. Of course not. What do I have to be in shock about? I mean," Rodney says more quickly still, "the IHC is just about the last place I want to be right now. It's coming up on 0300. I'd rather be in my own bed, asleep, than sitting here waiting for Carson to poke and prod me for no reason."

"Blood alcohol level of point two six," John reminds him.

"Which," he points out, "you took care of."

"Rodney," John says, framing his face with his hands and tilting it up so that Rodney has no choice but to meet his eyes.

Rodney has looked into these eyes time beyond number. He has met them across breakfast tables, sharing secret smiles. He has caught them off-world, when a glance is all he needs to know that they're about to try something stupidly reckless again and he best prepare for the worst. He has held their gaze while their bodies have been so tangled up in one another that it's impossible to tell where he stops and John begins. He knows their shape and colour and the weight of their gaze better than he knows himself, and yet-

Yet something is different about them this time. Galaxies swirl within their depths, telling the story of the birth and death of the universe. They speak of great, terrible age and loss – so much loss. They have lost everything as ten thousand years passed in darkness and silence, as the greatest civilization ever to exist fell to ruin and rumour; as the last survivors of his species choked on their own life's breath and blood.

Rodney knows this. He's known from the beginning that John's lost more than he will ever know, that he'd do anything to keep what he already does. But, like this, it's impossible to deny. As if it was possible any longer to forget that John is an Ancient, who he watched place a crown of stars on his own head while onlookers from a thousand worlds spoken in unison, "_This we name you forever: Imperator_. _Imperator_. _Imperator_," just fourteen hours ago; who committed genocide on his own species so that humanity might have its chance to prove itself a worthy successor to the races of the long broken Alliance; who's flesh is only a manifestation of his desire for a tangible body with all the trappings of mortality.

He resists the urge to close his eyes as John continues emphatically, "You threw a woman ten feet into a metal wall and _dented the wall_. Not even Ronon can do that. I don't know why that doesn't terrify you like it does me."

"I didn't throw anyone," he says, intending for it to be a forceful rejection of any and all parts he may have had in what happened to Allina, but what comes out of Rodney's mouth instead is a weak murmur at best, a thin protestation that all but confirms his actions. "I was drunk. The conversation wasn't making much sense. I couldn't figure what she wanted from me. And then-" he bites his lower lip and tries to turn away. John's hands come with him, but his eyes do not. "Then," it's easier to lie when he's not staring into those eyes, "things got a bit fuzzy and next thing I know she was across the room and I was on the floor."

"Fuzzy," John repeats impassively.

"Yes, fuzzy. As in: _I don't know what happened_. Maybe she threw herself into the wall."

"Allina certainly didn't throw herself into that wall."

"Maybe she did," Rodney insists, hearing his voice grow shrill. "Maybe it was a masochistic thing. Aren't religious types supposed to be all about the self-flagellation and the suffering?"

"Maybe on Terra, but not in Pegasus. Folks tend to be more of the _eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die_ persuasion."

"Is _that_ what you call it?" Is that supposed to excuse what _that woman_ tried to do – what she tried to do in her god's name – in _John's_ name? Is that supposed to make it _okay_? She never did more than stand too close, barely even touched, and yet it will never be _okay_, because who knows how many more like her are out there, just waiting for their chance to do the same? Not John, because if John were half the god people claimed he'd know already, he'd have stopped her before she even-

John's not the wrong one to blame, but it's John he's suddenly, inexplicably, stupidly angry at. His anger is accompanied by what can only be described as a _twitch_ in his brain and-

John snatches his hands back as if burned.

After a long moment of silence, he says, "I am going to get Carson."

"He's probably still in surgery," Rodney reminds him dully, anger fading back to the deep and abiding sense of fatigue that has followed him since the hallway. He feels the start of a headache coming on too, which makes everything that much better.

"This is more important. Just-" he bites his lower lip, "Just don't go anywhere, okay?"

"_I'm_ _fine_, John," he protests once more, but John still doesn't listen and flickers away a moment later. The blanket remains, as warm and solid as one can hope for.

* * *

Carson is reluctant to the point of recalcitrance to leave his patient, even after Iohannes uses a great deal of the excess energy the Coronation has given him to heal Alliana of the worst of her injuries. But eventually he does get the doctor to examine Rodney and it is exactly as Iohannes feared:

The devices Rodney placed in his brain have done more than allow him to speak with Atlantis. They have lightened the load, as it were, for the rest of his brain, allowing neurons that would otherwise have been bothered with base functions to lend themselves to higher functions. Synaptic interaction throughout his brain has skyrocketed. It's not quite at Alteran baseline, but already is well beyond normal Terran levels.

In short, Rodney is well along the path to Ascension, with every indication being that he shall be capable of doing so before long.

Iohannes has never heard worse news.


End file.
